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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510467">He never got to say it</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/neki31415/pseuds/neki31415'>neki31415</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:07:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>959</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/neki31415/pseuds/neki31415</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>He never got to say it</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re a bloody idiot,” John managed to say, teeth grinding together as he tried to shift his body. Every nerve in him was on fire.</p>
<p>“I know,” came the baritone voice, everything about it calm and clear. John wished he could turn and look at the other man. He wished he could find some reassurance, to be able to turn and know for a fact that he was alright. But even a twitch of his leg was sending signals of burning pain throughout his whole body and he couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t move, no matter how badly he wanted to.</p>
<p>“An absolute moron,” John reiterated, and there came a short breath similar to a laugh that came from behind him. John couldn’t say for sure what he was saying, or why. Sherlock Holmes was the complete opposite of an idiot, and even if he wasn’t, this situation was in no way his doing. If anything, it was John’s. John was the one who ran first. Sherlock was the one to follow this time, for the first time ever, and John was in the lead. Although, Sherlock had longer legs and was far faster than John ever could hope to be, and within a few seconds, Sherlock was once again in the lead, and John struggled to keep up with him. The fact that John was now at the bottom of a canyon bleeding from multiple wounds and with numerous broken bones would be more blamed on himself than Sherlock, basically. </p>
<p>“I know,” Sherlock repeated, a long sigh accompanying his words. John didn’t know if Sherlock was hurt, and that scared him most. The fact that Sherlock wasn’t fighting with John, wasn’t offended by John’s statements, only served in scaring John more. </p>
<p>There came a long silence. Sherlock usually would fill up these silences with random stories of his past cases. But he didn’t, not this time. Sherlock was silent, so silent that John could barely hear the breaths coming from his lungs. John’s anxiety built like bricks forming a house. “Do you think somebody will find us?” John whispered.</p>
<p>“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied. “I called Lestrade. The Yard will be here, they will take care of you. Everything will be just fine.” His voice remained steady and sure, so much so that John couldn’t even tell that it had dropped to just above a whisper.</p>
<p>“Okay,” John managed with a slight nod of his head. “Okay, right, yeah.” John couldn’t help the nagging suspicion, however, that something was definitely not right. Something was very wrong and Sherlock was just lying to him. “A-are you sure?”</p>
<p>“For God’s sakes, John,” Sherlock huffed in exasperation. “I am sure. I promise. Just hold on a little longer.” Sherlock then proceeded into a long, intense coughing fit. </p>
<p>“Sherlock?” John called out, sick with the worry that he held for his friend. </p>
<p>Another minute or two passed before the coughing stopped. “I’m fine, John. No need to worry.”</p>
<p>“Are you hurt?” John asked carefully, though the question was idiotic. Of course Sherlock was hurt. He’s not superhuman.</p>
<p>“We fell down a canyon,” Sherlock scoffed, obviously agreeing that John’s question was stupid. “To not be hurt in this situation would be quite impressive, I’d say.”</p>
<p>“Right, sorry. Stupid question. I meant, how hurt are you?”</p>
<p>There was a long pause in which Sherlock must’ve been weighing his wounds. He finally decided upon, “Nothing you need to worry over.”</p>
<p>“That’s--”</p>
<p>“Just shut up and wait, would you?” Sherlock interrupted before John could say anything, but there was little conviction in his voice. He sounded quiet and tired. “The Yard will be here soon. Can’t we just sit here in silence until they arrive?”</p>
<p>And so they did. John didn’t say a word, letting his mind drift to and fro comfortably. Well, the silence was broken after a long while, though. Not by John nor by the sirens, but by a soft-voiced Sherlock Holmes.</p>
<p>“John, I have something very important I must tell you,” his voice was soft and high and filled with pain. John was thrown back into reality, and that familiar anxiety was strong and true immediately. “I doubt you’ll want to know, but I--- well, I need to tell you at least once.” There came another cough, loud and harsh. “I love you, John Watson,” there was a long silence in which John’s entire being felt as though it was shattering to pieces. Sherlock forced out a breathy and humourless laugh. “Sorry,” came out as barely a whisper, as if he was exhaling and the word just slipped out with it.</p>
<p>“God, don’t be sorry,” John whined. Sirens were able to be heard in the distance. “Sherlock, there is nothing for you to be sorry for.” The sirens got louder. “Sherlock?” The sirens just got louder and louder, and not a word was uttered by the great detective. “Sherlock?!” Nothing. Car doors were opened, and lights shined in John’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Christ,” was cursed by the familiar voice of Gregory Lestrade. Shuffling of feet around John. “Sherlock?! Hey! Sherlock! Come on, mate!” Someone was beside John, but he couldn’t pay attention to them. “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!” Footsteps to and fro, pacing. “I need somebody over here, for fuck’s sake! Paramedics! He isn’t breathing!”</p>
<p>John felt as though his own heart could stop at those three words. Sherlock Holmes, the selfish bastard. How could he? John’s eyes filled with tears that he couldn’t hold back. Not Sherlock. Anyone but Sherlock, please. Not now. </p>
<p>But John was put on a stretcher, to be taken to hospital. And when he reawoke, the world had drained of its colour. Lestrade was there, looking down at his shoes, eyes red-rimmed and puffy.</p>
<p>John never even got to say it back.</p>
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